


Monsters and Men

by Bullfinch



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When trouble comes for Derek, he chooses to meet it alone. But he's not alone, not anymore—for better or for worse. Takes place after 2x12. Includes: brainwashing, Peter being sneaky, and everyone getting in over their heads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My take on the whole Alpha pack business. Will undoubtedly become an AU relic when S3 begins. There's pretty gratuitous violence later, but not yet.

Derek feels them howling more than he hears it. 

Down to the deepest parts of him. It's not just because he's a wolf. The instinct is already familiar to him, the urge to get up and _run_ —the howl is a cry for help and the pack only survives together. He knows the restlessness, the jump in his chest. 

It's because he's their Alpha. It's because it's Boyd and Erica, who turned their backs on him and ran when he couldn't protect them, and he rebuked them for it but they were right and nothing's changed. Not a goddamn thing. What did Deaton say to him? _You're still an Alpha…but as usual, not a very competent one._  

Derek presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He knows that, too.

"Ooh. They don't sound very happy."

Derek's hands curl into fists. "I can hear that."

"It's all right, Derek." Peter Hale sits beside him on the stairs, assumes a fatherly tone. "They were willing to take their chances alone. They were aware of the risks."

"They weren't aware of the Alpha pack." Derek stands abruptly, descends the stairs. The proximity of his uncle is making his skin crawl.

"Bad timing, that's all. Derek, you can't be so hard on yourself." Peter rises as well, uncoiling smoothly. "You didn't know the pack would get here so soon." 

"Yeah, well, now they're here." Derek hovers in the threshold, stares out at the thick late afternoon mist that rolls sluggishly through the trees. "And they have Boyd and Erica. Presumably to get to me."

Peter glides up behind him. "Oh, no. Don't tell me you're actually thinking of going after them. They're not your responsibility anymore."

"Really?" He turns sharply. "Because I seem to remember making them a dozen promises and I haven't kept a single one." He glances out again at the trees. "At least not yet." 

"Derek. Please." He practically whines. "You know this is some sort of trap. I'm worried about you."

"I'm gonna have to face them eventually, one way or the other." Derek takes a deep breath. "Might as well do it while I still have a chance at saving Boyd and Erica."

"Then please tell me you'll at least bring reinforcements." Peter lays a concerned hand on Derek's shoulder.

Derek jerks away. "No. I'm not gonna fight them. I can't present myself as a threat."

"If you go there alone…" Peter tilts his head a little, meets Derek's eye. "…do you really think they'll just let you leave?"

He cracks his neck. "Guess we'll find out."

—

He's expecting Scott and Isaac to show up—they'll have heard the howls too—and they do, straight from lacrosse practice. Scott is particularly upset (of course). "What happened to Erica and Boyd? Why did they howl like that?"

"I'm pretty sure they've been captured." This sounds bad. And it looks bad, too, with his treacherous ex-dead uncle lurking behind him, smiling airily. "There's…another pack in town." 

Derek explains briefly what he knows, which isn't much. Isaac's heard of the Alpha pack before, but Scott's flabbergasted. "What the—why didn't you tell me about them before?!"

"Because I didn't want you to flip out and do something—reckless." He manages to bite back the word _stupid_ just in time. That's not even fair to say now, considering Scott's unexpected sneakiness is what saved them all from Gerard in the first place. "It's okay. I'm gonna go get them back. But you need to just stay here and don't get involved." He meets Scott's gaze, holds it for emphasis. "Okay? I mean it. You're no match for them."

"But you—" This from Isaac, who hesitates a little. "If you're going alone, then—you're no match for them either."

"I can take care of myself." Something he's been telling himself for years. He can't remember if it's ever been true. "If I have to worry about you two, this is gonna be ten times harder. So just please, listen to me for once and keep your heads down. All right?"

Scott is still plainly mistrustful, and Isaac's not much better, but they back off, and that's all Derek can do for now. After they leave, he turns on Peter. "You. They _know_ not to trust you, so if you think you'll be able to—"

"Derek! Please!" Peter raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. "So accusatory! I came back because I want to _live_ , that's all. That's all anyone really wants, isn't it?" He has the gall to look hurt. "I've learned my lesson, and I'd rather abandon my considerable ambitions and settle for keeping my neck intact this time around."

It sounds reasonable, but Derek's instincts are pounding away at the back of his skull. _You cannot trust this man._ And on its heels: _he killed Laura._ Louder: _why is he still alive?_  

Derek forces himself to focus. Erica. Boyd. He has more immediate things to worry about. "If you try to trick Isaac and Scott, if you try _anything_ , I will kill you again. And again. As many times as it takes."

As he walks out the door, Peter calls after him. "If you say so, Derek. But we all know how good you are at keeping your promises."

He doesn't turn around.

—

He's maybe a couple of miles away when it happens.

He remembers seeing that Omega being cleaved in half by Gerard, and he imagines it would feel something like this, a thick, inexorable slide that cuts straight through his middle, sloppy but absolute. He's running, so when he falls he skids forward across the leaves, clutching at his stomach, his chest, but it doesn't _hurt._ It's just this big chunk of him that's been hollowed out suddenly, left him gutted, weak. And he realizes that he no longer knows where Boyd and Erica are.

He could feel them before, on some level so primal he's barely aware of it, but now he's lost them, just like that. He doesn't know why. Still, he's got his other senses, and he picks up their scent without too much trouble. 

He goes more cautiously now, catches a tremor in his limbs every so often. Whatever happened is still sending echoes into every corner of him. But he can't afford that right now. _Still an Alpha, but as usual, not a very competent one._ Derek shakes his head violently. He will not let this rattle him. 

By the time the other wolves make themselves known, he's regained his composure. He doesn't address them. If they want to talk, they'll talk. He just keeps moving, following the scent. He's never strayed this far into the woods before, but he's got a good idea of where he is—Windham, which shares a border with Beacon Hills to the north. 

The treeline breaks and the first house looms before him. It's big, and nice—or it would be nice if it were finished; one of the wings is still skeletal, a frame of pale wood and unmoored Tyvek banners luffing a little in the inconstant breeze. Erica and Boyd aren't in there. He walks past it. The other wolves follow him, casually, forming a loose  group several yard behind him. The breeze whips past him, and he counts the scents: four, five. Probably all Alphas.

Two more unfinished houses. There's not even any construction vehicles, just slumped-down piles of dirt and mulch, trenches welling with rainwater. This site hasn't been used in a while. The last house at least looks completed, and that's where the trail is leading him. He doesn't break his pace. 

 _Windham Pines Model Home. Open weekends 1-4 p.m. or by appointment._ The door's slightly ajar, and he puts his hand on the sign and pushes it open. Here, definitely. He can hear them now, the dry timbre of Erica's breathing, the weight of Boyd's. The hallway is empty, and he strides down it, letting his boots click on the varnished wood. 

There they are. Sitting on a cream leather couch. Not even restrained. But they don't need to be. There's two wolves flanking them, male, neither particularly large, but they've got a lazy confidence that Derek's sure they could easily back up. 

He's not worried about them anyway.

"Derek Hale." 

A woman. She's older than him by at least ten years, and shorter by nearly a foot, but Derek feels like he's lost this already, whatever power struggle he was prepared to enter into to negotiate Erica and Boyd's release. Because she doesn't sneer or growl when she speaks, doesn't try to intimidate him. It's like she just knows she's got him beat, and is simply waiting for him to realize it so the whole process will go more smoothly for both of them.

He remembers telling Peter he wasn't going to fight them.

He remembers telling Scott not to do anything reckless.

_Not a very competent one._

He swallows the anger. Anger feels good, in the right dose. But he'll let it run later. For now, he has to keep it corralled.

The woman smiles at him, not quite friendly, but sharp, and utterly polite. "We need to talk."


	2. Chapter 2

They both look scared, and Erica's makeup says she was probably crying before, but neither one is panicking. A tiny spark of pride flares up in Derek, and it burns a little, because the last time he saw them they were abandoning him, but that doesn't matter right now. He returns his attention to the woman. "We're not talking until you let them go."

She inclines her head slightly. "Of course. Although I believe they may also be interested in why I bit them."

Derek's eyes flick over, and Boyd and Erica are both bleeding, the marks visible on the sides of their necks. He resists asking the woman about it, struggling for any inch of ground in this negotiation, waits for her to explain.

"I'm an Alpha." Her eyes flare red briefly, and she walks over to the leather couch. "But not like the ones you know. I am an Alpha of Alphas. My bite claims wolves."

Claims. The implications hit Derek like a sledgehammer to the chest, and he almost stumbles, literally stumbles; but he doesn't. Because he can't afford to.

"They're not yours anymore." She nods at the two men standing guard, and they amble back, retreating away from Boyd and Erica. "The connection you have with them, the bite link, it's gone. They'll never be part of your pack again." 

So that's what it was. That feeling in the forest, like the guts had been ripped out of him. That was his pack being taken away. He's aware of it, exquisitely, excruciatingly aware of the spaces in him where that power used to be, forces himself to assimilate that. If this does come down to a confrontation, he doesn't want to be caught trying draw on power that's not there anymore.

She's watching him for a reaction, but he denies her. He is perfectly composed. "We're still not talking until you let them go."

"Admirable, Mr. Hale." She smiles at him, with some humor this time. "You're still faithful to them even when they can't help you anymore." She folds her arms. "Even though, as we caught them running, I suspect they do not return your loyalty."

He doesn't respond. He said he wouldn't talk, and he's sticking to that.

The woman gestures at Boyd and Erica. "It's all right, you two can go."

They stand cautiously and try to meet Derek's eye. He spares them each a glance, but no more, and they get the message, leaving in silence. He hears their footsteps stutter and hesitate behind him, hears the front door swing open, another bunch of wolves walk in. The ones who were following him outside, probably.

They assemble there in the living room, a loose semicircle blocking the exit. There's still the two guards as well, and the woman. Whom he has not yet looked away from.

"My name is Julia." With her pack in the room, she practically radiates power. The display is working; Derek feels his heartbeat start to rise despite himself. She faces him. "And I want you, Derek Hale, to be a part of my pack."

His name again. He narrows his eyes. "How do you know me?"

"I know your family." Warmth breaks her face, unconcealed. "Knew. I was sorry to hear about the fire."

He won't take her display of compassion. "So, what? Now that I've popped back up again and I've got no family left to protect me, you're gonna seize the opportunity and force me into your pack?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Well, the plan was to ask you."

"You kidnapped two of my Betas and— _claimed_ them. Did you expect—"

"You won't need them anymore, Mr. Hale!" Julia opens her arms. "That's the entire point! You will be part of a new pack. A _much_ stronger one."

He scans the assembled wolves. There's something about them. They all look strangely… _animal_."And why would I want to join you when I could just stay right here in Beacon Hills?"

"Because, Mr. Hale, there are humans out there who want to kill us. Hunters dogging our every step." She doesn't have the same look. She's missing the blunt, feral hunger. "We need to strike first. We need to protect our kind."

"So you want more soldiers to kill hunters." He actually considers it for a moment, the image of Kate's lopsided grin flashing sudden and bright in his mind like the snap of teeth. But he remembers the last time he saw Chris Argent, so dumbfounded by his own father's actions, so desperate to save lives that he would work with wolves, and Derek knows that he can't do this. "Sorry, but I'm not going to carry out your vendetta for you."

Julia grows somber. "Mr. Hale. You are going to join us."

So he's not getting out of here after all. Her confident assertion sets off warnings in his head, but he won't just give this to her. "What, are you going to _claim_ me too? Bite me all you want, I still won't follow your orders."

She sighs. "I can't just claim you. You're an Alpha too. It's more complicated than that. But please, believe me when I say we have ways of persuading you." 

The threat is thick in her voice. Derek is fed up with this, and he lets his claws come out, at last. "Then persuade me."

She doesn't join the fray herself, of course. It wouldn't make much of a difference—Derek's more than occupied dealing with the other six, who come at him two or three at a time. They appear to be avoiding damaging him with their claws, for some reason; he receives body-blows by the dozen but his flesh remains mostly intact. He does not show the same restraint. Anytime his claws come in contact with something, he digs in deeper, twists and tears. He wants this to hurt. 

When she does finally join in, Derek is beginning to slow. His body is having trouble keeping up with the unforgiving blows, the deep bruises and broken bones. But he feels the teeth sink into his shoulder, the first bite he's received the entire battle, and something shifts in him, some vital piece of ground falls away. He keeps going despite that, whirling, snapping at Julia; but she's already stepped back, gathered herself. She stands square to him, looks him straight in the eye, and roars.

Derek flinches.

Not just as a physical reaction. For a second, he wants to stop fighting. He wants to submit. 

That one second is enough for Julia's Alphas to get their hands on him, twist his arms behind his back, force him to his knees. He thrashes, but it's too late, and he's left to kneel there, his head thundering with anger and humiliation. He flinched. He _flinched._

Julia grasps his hair and tries to tilt his head to the side, but he wrenches away, so she roars again, right in his face, her eyes burning so bright he can hardly look at them. Reflexively, he exposes his neck, and again he hates himself for it, but again it's too late. There's a stinging, like the prick of a needle.

Purple washes his vision. The others are talking, but he has trouble understanding what they're saying. 

Julia's bright red eyes. "You're mine, Hale. You're mine."

—

Peter watches the sun rise.

It's a lovely sight. Perhaps the most beautiful one he's seen since Derek's been gone. 

He thinks four days is enough. 

Scott came around yesterday, asking about Boyd and Erica. Peter ruefully averred that he had seen neither hide nor hair of them. And that Derek was similarly absent.

Scott postulated that maybe he'd just joined up with the Alpha pack. Peter had done his best to give the impression that he found this a reasonable assumption.

Peter stretches, extends his claws experimentally. He's still weak. It's quite frustrating. He was hoping it wouldn't last very long, these unpleasant aftereffects of coming back from the grave. But alas.

Perhaps he should show up at Scott's house. His mother really is quite beautiful. No, that would scare the boy away. And he can't do this alone, that's for sure. It's going to take all of Scott's wide-eyed good intentions and forceful, brainless charisma to get this done. He'll find some other way to talk to him. Something slightly less invasive. 

Peter leans against the burned-out timbers of the Hale house and smiles. He came back just in time.


	3. Chapter 3

He's turning into something else.

He asks Julia about it, the first opportunity he gets. (No, not the first. She's almost always there. But a hot, restless weight smothers his mind, and he can't focus enough to throw it off.) "What are you doing to me?"

She doesn't even need the other wolves now. He won't raise a hand to her when she sticks the needle into his neck. "The wolf side of you is weak, Hale. I'm giving it the strength it needs."

He grabs for the syringe, weakly, confusedly. Her lips press together just for a second in irritation, and he holds on to that. "What is it?"

She tugs the glass cylinder from between his fingers, holds it before him. "A peculiar type of wolfsbane. Not one often employed by hunters, as it has very specific applications. After all, there are few situations in which you'd want to make your prey  _more_ wild." 

"Wolfsbane?" He can feel it settling in again, the heavy, clawed hands suffocating the rational part of him. The human part. "Using it on your own…"

"It's all right, Hale. You won't need it anymore soon enough." She tilts his head sideways, slides one hand over the bared skin of his neck, and bites him.

—

Scott smells him as soon as he steps out the door after practice, that odd mix of earth and smoke. He hears him a second later, calling softly from around the corner. "Scott. Might I have a word?"

Stiles apparently notices something's up. "Hey, dude, what is it?"

"Peter Hale. He's here." Scott stalks off to his right, and a moment later Stiles is beside him. He glances over. "You don't have to come with me, you know."

" 'Course I do. I'm your wingman." 

But the quip is missing its usual confidence, and Scott knows Stiles definitely hasn't forgotten the whole incident where Peter kidnapped him and forced him to hunt Derek down. Scott claps a reassuring hand on Stiles's shoulder. "It's okay, I got your back."

Peter's leaning against the brick wall, casually inspecting his nails. "Scott. I'm sorry to surprise you like this, but I couldn't wait any longer." His face brightens a little. "Stiles! Good to see you again!"

Scott puts himself between his friend and Peter. Best to finish this as quickly as possible. "Is this about Derek?"

The older wolf sighs. "It is. He's still not back. I'm afraid he's been taken captive by the Alpha pack."

"Taken captive?" Scott shakes his head. "Why? What would they do with him?"

"I don't know." Peter shrugs theatrically. "I honestly don't. But you know Derek, he's not really the follower type. I highly doubt he's still there of his own free will."

Scott was afraid of this. One more crisis he really doesn't need. He's only got about a month before the end of the semester to save his grades. "Well, then, he should have—called for help. Howled or something." 

But even as he says it, he knows what Peter's response will be, and he's right. "Scott, this is Derek we're talking about. He's a bleeding heart. If he's in over his head, he won't want to drag anyone else down with him." Another sigh. "Oh, my poor, foolish nephew. Too selfless for his own good."

"So, what, you want me to help you find him?" It sounds reluctant even to his ears, but he's already capitulated in his mind. Of course he'll go save Derek. He does feel kind of bad for leaving him out of the loop with the whole kanima thing.

"Oh, I don't need you to find him. I already know where he is." Peter scratches his unshaven chin. "It's the extraction part of the process where I anticipate difficulty."

"So…you want me to team up with you to get him out?"

"Scott. Please." Peter raises a dubious eyebrow. Scott recognizes the motion from Derek. Must run in the family. "I hardly think the two of us will be enough to confront a pack of Alphas."

"Well—I mean, we don't exactly have tons of reinforcements. Like, there's Isaac, but—"

"I was thinking of someone a little less…wolfy. Perhaps several someones." Peter waits for him to catch up, offers another hint. "Who do you know who is particularly skilled at —"

But Scott gets it, and cuts him off. "The _Argents?_ You want—they're just as likely to try and kill Derek!" 

Peter clenches his jaw, a little exasperated. "Well, we don't have to _tell_ them that Derek's there, do we?"

Scott blinks, putting together what Peter has said. "You're gonna—"

"—use the Argents as cannon fodder to distract the Alphas while you go get Derek." Stiles swallows. "Doesn't seem like a real great plan from a _moral_ standpoint—"

"Stiles, I admire your virtuous attitude, but calling the Argents and their allies 'cannon fodder' is both a discourtesy and a serious underestimation." There's a glint in his eye now, something hungry and sly, but he looks away and Scott loses it. "I think you'll find, if they're properly forewarned, they'll be more than a match for the Alphas."

Scott still doesn't like it. "But—even if they are, they'll be killing all these werewolves and we don't even know if they're bad! What if they're just regular people like—"

"Like you and me? Scott." Peter leans in suddenly, and Scott hears Stiles jump behind him. "I don't know much about the Alpha pack, but I know they're _dangerous._ One of the reasons the Hale family stuck so close together was to ward them off, with strength in numbers. I never dealt with them directly—Derek's mother took care of that, and she never spoke of them. I'm sure that's at least part of the reason Derek and Laura left Beacon Hills after the fire—they were running. And if this pack is a threat to wolves, how do you think they treat humans?"

Peter's slippery, but he's also very persuasive, and Scott clenches his jaw. "You want me to talk to Chris Argent."

Peter relaxes, leans back. "Thank you. That will be marvelous."

Scott didn't realize he actually agreed to this, but Peter seems to assume he has, which is basically the same thing. He takes a second to get his thoughts in order. Peter's hard to keep up with, and he needs to tread carefully. "Listen—I'll tell Mr. Argent about the Alpha pack. But it's totally up to him whether he decides to go after them or not."

Peter gives a conciliatory nod. "Of course."

—

Allison was confused when Scott showed up on her doorstep, and even more confused when he said he needed to talk to her dad, but she let him in anyway.

Now they're sitting in the basement, and Chris Argent is rubbing his face, clearly exhausted. It's been less than a week since he watched his daughter nearly killed by his own father, and Scott feels guilty forcing him back out onto the battlefield so soon. But it's necessary. At least according to Peter.

"The Alpha pack is in Beacon Hills." Chris slumps back in his chair. "Not the best news I've heard all day."

"The Alpha—" Scott leans across the table. "—wait, you know about them already?"

"If it's the same pack, then yes. And I'm guessing it is. There aren't too many Alpha packs out there." He glances over at Allison, who's sitting across from Scott. "We've lost a lot of friends to them."

"So—" This still feels wrong somehow, and he shakes it off. "—you're gonna go after them?" 

Chris grimaces. "We can't afford to squander the opportunity. I've got some calls to make." He flattens his hands on the table, pauses. "You said Derek Hale told you about this?" 

"Um—" Scott is glad he's the one with superhearing and not Chris, because he's sure his heart rate would give him away. "—yeah. But he doesn't want anything to do with them."

"Pity. Would've made things a lot easier." Chris stands. Scott isn't sure if he means easier to kill Derek or easier to pass judgement on him. He doesn't ask. Chris heads upstairs, calling over his shoulder. "Scott? You'll stay out of this if you know what's good for you."

"Right. Yeah. Definitely." 

It just keeps feeling more and more wrong. Scott squeezes his eyes shut for a second, but he opens them when Allison puts her hand over his. "Hey. Don't worry about it, okay? My dad knows what he's doing."

"Yeah." He smiles at her, and she smiles back, and that helps a little.


	4. Chapter 4

They hide the Jeep on an access road maybe a half-mile out. The sun hasn't quite set, so they have to pull in pretty far, but it won't be visible from the main road. The Argents haven't arrived yet; Peter said they should allow some time to get into position. He's not sure how long the fight will last.

Scott's about to get out of the car when Stiles grabs his elbow. "Scott. Be careful." His eyes flick back to where Peter's climbing from the Jeep. "Like, really careful. 'Cause I won't be there to save your ass."

"Hey. Don't worry." He gives Stiles a pat on the shoulder. "I know. We'll be fine."

Stiles swallows and nods. Scott still feels guilty for dragging his friend out here, but they need a getaway driver, because there's a real chance that none of them will be in any condition to drive a car after they pull Derek out.

Scott jumps out, followed by Isaac and Peter. Scott glances over his shoulder. He doesn't like Peter's inclusion in this, not at all. But they'll need all the help they can get. He jolts as Peter grasps his arm. "This way. Follow me." 

They slip through the forest as stealthily as they can. Scott hears it after a few moments, the rumble of engines. The Argents are close. Peter stops them, points ahead. "That's where they're holed up."

Scott squints. Through the trees, he can see white siding. A house.

"Wait for my cue." The moon is near-full, and Peter's grin catches the light. Combined with his recently dead state, it makes him look for a second like a mad ghost. Scott mentally shakes himself. No time to be scared of Peter. He's got enough to worry about tonight.

Then suddenly Peter's off and running. Scott swears under his breath, pushes off the nearest tree trunk and sprints after him. Isaac's right there. "Wow, he's pretty eager to save Derek."

"Yeah, I know!" Which doesn't ring true, and never has, but it's too late. Whatever happens, it's too late. 

The first volley of gunfire sounds just as they arrive at the house. Scott freezes reflexively, but Peter grabs hold of his arm and heaves him forward. "Quickly! They'll be forming a perimeter!" 

"All right, jeez! I'm just trying to find him!" Scott takes a deep breath as he runs to the back door. He can smell Derek here, definitely, but there's several other scents too, unfamiliar ones, and they're hard to disentangle. 

"I got him. Come on." Isaac claps Scott on the back.

Must be a Beta-Alpha thing. Scott follows him. Peter's right behind.

The house appears to be empty; the other wolves are all outside, meeting the hunters head-on. Scott frowns. "You sure he's—" But Isaac moves with confidence, pulling at a white-painted door in the central hallway, then standing back and kicking it down when it doesn't open.

The lights are on. The basement looks empty.

Isaac, at the top of the stairs, calls out softly. "Derek?"

There's a low growling from below them. Scott yanks Isaac back just as Derek pulls himself up onto the edge of the landing, slashing the air.

"Shit!" Scott tries to slam the door shut, but one clawed hand clamps down on it from the inside and shoves it open, overwhelming Scott's efforts with ease. 

"What the hell—" He doesn't get any further, because Derek's coming at him with what looks like the intent to kill. Scott flings himself sideways and ends up on his ass, but considering the enormous, ragged hole in the drywall where he was just standing, that's an acceptable tradeoff. Derek yanks his claws from the wall and faces the three of them, teeth bared. Yeah. Definitely the intent to kill.

The hallway is narrow, hardly an ideal place to defend themselves. Derek goes after Isaac next, roaring, and Isaac freezes, his Beta instincts kicking in. There's no room for Isaac to retreat, and Derek's backhand sends him bouncing off the wall and stumbling to the floor, prone. Too exposed. Way too exposed. Derek's about to go deliver the finishing blow, and Scott, knowing this won't turn out well but seeing no other options, grabs Derek bodily, planning to pivot him away from Isaac.

He barely gets his hands on the Alpha before Derek's twisting, breaking his grip, gathering the front of Scott's shirt in his hand and slamming him into the wall. It happens too fast for Scott to react with anything other than total surprise and reflexive terror. Derek's face is inches from his own, wolfed out, eyes sparking red. 

But he hesitates. 

The ferocity vanishes, confusion taking its place. Derek's eyes fade to their normal gray-green. He looks down at where his claws have pierced Scott's shirt, opens his hand. 

Peter takes the opportunity to lift Derek bodily, step into the basement, and throw him off the side of the landing.

He withdraws and swings the door shut behind him. "Okay. Time to run away now."

Scott hauls Isaac to his feet while Peter peeks out the door. "Coast is clear. Mostly. Let's go."

As they emerge into the evening air, Scott hears the basement door bang open behind them. Not wanting to face Derek again, he runs, dragging a still-dazed Isaac along with him. There's a scuffle going on to their left, two werewolves and two hunters, but they get by unnoticed. 

"What the hell was that?!" Scott, seeing Isaac's got his feet back under him, lets him go. "It was like he didn't even recognize us or something!"

"Ah, that's not quite true." Peter's keeping pace with them. "Scott, are those clothes you're wearing yours?"

"Um—" Weird question. He answers automatically. "Yeah, of course they're—" But that's wrong, now that he thinks about it, and he amends his answer. "No, wait, Stiles lent me this shirt. I spilled ketchup all over mine at lunch. Oh, crap, there's holes in it now…" And there are, four ragged holes right in the center of the chest where Derek's claws tore through it. 

"Interesting. Very interesting." Peter looks thoughtful, and Scott thinks if he wasn't running, he'd probably be stroking his beard. "So he reacts to all of us with hostility and aggression, but the scent of Stiles brings him back to earth. Did you see his eyes? They went human-colored when he got close enough to you."

Scott's brow crinkles. "What? Why does _Stiles_ make him do that?"

Peter shrugs nonchalantly. "How is Stiles different from the rest of us?"

It's obvious. "Human. He's human."

"Exactly." Peter grins. "Stiles is neither a wolf nor a threat, so Derek's wolf side doesn't care about him. And the human side can break through." He sighs. "Poor Stiles. I really didn't think he was going to have to get involved."

Even Isaac looks up in surprise at this, and Scott wastes no time in protesting. "Wait— _no._ No way. We are not letting Stiles anywhere _near_ Derek. He was this close to killing us, and Stiles isn't exactly equipped to handle that kinda thing—"

"Do you have an alternate plan?" 

Scott's never heard that sharpness before from Peter, and it takes him by surprise. Peter's pinned him, too, with his stare, even as they're running. "Do you have any other ideas for bringing my lunatic nephew back to his senses and rescuing him from the— _depraved_ wolves who have done this to him? Because, Scott, if he's this bad after only six days, how long do you think it'll be before his human side is completely suffocated? _We must do this now or he's gone forever._ " 

They're almost at the Jeep. Scott doesn't know how it got to this point, when he's actually considering throwing his self-confessedly fragile best friend at a killer werewolf. "Look, we'll—we'll tell Stiles. And let him decide. Okay?" But even that's an admission of defeat, because if this is the only way to save a life, there's no chance in hell Stiles will refuse.

Peter insists they explain on the move, because they've wasted too much time already. And Scott's right. Of course. He can tell Stiles is terrified even though he pretends to be calm, can see his eyes have gone a little wide, and he won't smile. But Stiles says he'll try, doesn't put up any objections, doesn't complain even one bit.

Scott hates everything about this. "Just promise me, if anything goes wrong, you run, okay? We'll be there. We'll get you out."

"Yeah, I know. I know." No self-deprecating quip at the end. Scott swears to himself in his head, over and over and over. They keep running.

There's hunters in the forest now. The perimeter has broken, and they're scattered, wolves and hunters circling each other. Peter's eyes dart left and right, and he picks out a safe path for them with preternatural skill. Scott doesn't argue. He's too busy keeping an eye on Stiles. Which isn't even necessary, at this point, but he can't help it. He feels like he needs to do _something_ , and this is all he can think of.

The backyard is empty now, and Stiles doesn't pause at the treeline with the rest of them, just barges straight ahead. Scott's pretty sure that he's afraid if he stops, he won't have the courage to start walking again.

Stiles pushes the door open. Scott hears him call, tremulously: "Derek?"

From inside the house, a low growl.

Peter grabs Scott's arm. "I believe that's our cue to exit."


	5. Chapter 5

"Derek?"

In the house.

Julia: _Stay here. If they come in the house, kill them._

He growls.

_Kill them._

Soft footsteps on the wooden floor above him. He climbs the stairs. 

"Derek?"

Something about that sounds familiar.

The door opens in front of him and he's already stepping through. There's someone there. A human. He grabs the human by the front of his shirt and shoves him back into the wall. But the human isn't fighting. The human is talking, a stream of sounds that slide down the surface of his mind without catching. But there's that one sound again, repeated. "Derek."

It starts to catch.

It's like waking up. The words make sense all of a sudden, though he's come in in the middle. "—would never even _consider_ trying to kill you because you could eat me in probably like one bite, come on, Derek, oh God, please don't, it's not like I have any meat on me anyway—"

"Stiles?"

He doesn't know where that came from. Some buried part of him struggling to break through. But he resists. _If they come in the house, kill—_

"Derek?"

He hasn't heard that name in a long time.

Hale. Julia calls him Hale. But that name sits heavy, dense with guilt, coiled with animal drive. He wrestles out from under it, clings to the truer name. _Derek._ Coming from the mouth of—

"Stiles." He knows this boy, and the sudden awareness brings with it a muted flush of emotions—human emotions. Annoyance, first. Grudging respect. Mild attachment. Nothing particularly strong, but new, compared to the ferocity, the pack devotion, the animal instincts he's been immersed in for God knows how many days. And that's jarring. Jarring enough to make him fight for it. He inhales, because smell, more than any other sense, drags his deepest memories forward, and he remembers sitting in Stiles's Jeep, hiding in his house, remembers the person he used to be. "Goddamnit. Goddamnit."

"Oh God. Okay. So you're not gonna eat me anymore?" Stiles gingerly touches Derek's wrist, and Derek lets his grip on Stiles's shirt slacken, but he doesn't let go. Stiles is the only thing that's brought him back, and he needs to hold onto that.

"No." He squeezes his eyes shut briefly. "God _damn_. I can't believe she did this to me."

"Did what now?" Stiles's heart is gradually slowing, going from the verge of exploding to simple abject terror. 

"My wolf side. Took over completely. Couldn't even remember what it was to be human." He pauses, wincing a little internally. "Scott and Isaac. Glad they got out." And someone else was there, too— _Peter_ —

Outside, a vicious snarl catches his ear all of a sudden, and he bares his fangs reflexively, growling in response, ready to go fight, defend the pack. But Stiles's voice is like a punch in the gut, knocking the animal part of him back. "Derek? You okay?"

He takes a breath, reclaiming himself, then rolls his eyes. "No, Stiles, I'm not _okay_. Wolfsbane's still— _fuck._ Whatever, we have to go." He yanks Stiles off the wall and lets go of him, finally. "You're staying with me."

"Um, duh, it's practically raining werewolves out there—" He follows Derek to the door.

"That's not what I mean. Stiles, I can't depend on my own judgement right now." Which is incredibly frustrating, because he's an Alpha, he's used to being the one in control. But not here. Here he's handing the reins over to a sixteen-year-old boy. He stops in front of the door, turns to Stiles, takes him by the shoulders. This is important. "You need to direct me. Tell me who to go after and who to avoid, and make sure I keep protecting you. Because with all this fighting, my wolf side's gonna be chomping at the bit to kill any hunters we find. And so far you're the only thing that works in helping me beat it back."

Stiles nods, barely hesitates. "Okay. I'll do it."

Derek was expecting difficulty with this, for some reason, and he's struck by contrition when Stiles gives him nothing less than readiness and resolve. Fear, too. But that makes it even more remarkable. And he realizes he shouldn't have expected any difficulty at all. Stiles is hyperactive and young and only human, but he's always been there when it counts. Every time.

The contrition works for him, another bulwark against the wolf howling, thrashing, clawing at the back of his mind.

He releases Stiles, cracks his neck. "Ready?"

"No, not really." Stiles shrugs nonchalantly. "But what the hell, right?"

"Yeah. What the hell." Derek shoves the door open. 

The scent of blood is on the air, and his fangs come out, but Stiles grabs his arm and tugs at it. "Come on. The Jeep's not that far."

They run.

Through the backyard, which is empty by now, the last soldiers standing on both sides having spread out into the forest. It only gets worse. Sounds from every direction, growling, turning into open-throated roars, scattered gunfire. Derek's claws flex at the air. He wants to hurt, to rip into something solid. The pull at his arm again. He whips around, prepared to slash whomever it is to shreds of flesh and organs, but Stiles is there, and it's like a punch in the gut again. He stumbles. 

Stiles holds him steady. "This way. Come on."

He follows. But there's a burst of gunfire to their right, close, too close. Stiles tacks as quick as he can, but he slides on the leaves and falls, pulling Derek down too. Derek stays on his feet, going to a crouch. The gunfire echoes loud in his ears, and  by the time he comes back to himself, he doesn't know how long Stiles has been yanking at his arm, saying his name. "Derek! Derek, we have to go, _now_ —"

It's too late. The combatants are already there, a frantic jumble of shooting, scrambling, the werewolf trying to close the distance between them, the hunter trying to stay away so he can use his guns. But the hunter's pistol clicks empty, and the werewolf takes advantage and leaps ten feet to tackle him to the ground. 

Suddenly Stiles is smacking Derek's shoulder. "Save the human! Save the human!" 

Normally Derek would let instinct take over in a situation like this. But he knows if he does that now, he'll end up killing the hunter instead. He forces himself to focus before he charges in, wraps his arms around the wolf's shoulders and chest and throws her off.

The werewolf gets to her feet before Derek can turn to face him, and Derek's almost too late in tilting backwards to avoid her attack. She comes at him viciously, her Alpha eyes flashing red, and it's impossible to fight her without giving in to his instinct. But as soon as he does that, he starts losing it, because he knows her and she's pack. He backs away, and she looks confused for just a moment.

From behind him: "Derek! Werewolf bad! Kill werewolf!"

That voice.

He forces himself to zero in on it. Stiles. He knows Stiles. Stiles, who harbored him when he was a fugitive, who hid him when he was half-dead from wolfsbane poisoning, who treaded water in a pool for two straight hours so Derek wouldn't drown. He forces himself to remember all these things, and clings to them. Stiles has his back. This werewolf—

He turns to her and roars.

He fights smart this time. She's injured already, and he uses that, works her bullet wounds. It slows her down enough for him to damage her, and the finishing blow isn't sweet to him, doesn't give him the animal joy he might have expected; but it's satisfying all the same. He straightens, dragging his bloody fingertips up his jeans to clean them. In the background, Stiles calls "Aww, yes!"

Derek examines himself. He's hurt some, but he can still run. So he turns, and there's Stiles, and standing next to him—

Chris Argent.

The hunter he saved. Chris Argent. Who's now pointing a gun at him. 

Derek brings his claws out again. Argent's bleeding already. He could probably cover the distance between them without taking too much damage, and from there it's just a matter of keeping Stiles behind Argent's back so the kid doesn't get shot accidentally.

Stiles steps right in front of the gun.

Of course. Derek restrains himself from rolling his eyes.

Stiles raises his hands slowly. "Mr. Argent, please—"

Argent looks around Stiles, finds Derek. "Derek Hale. Fancy meeting you here." He cocks his head a little, shows a sardonic half-smile. "Fighting your own kind, no less." 

"They're not my kind." Derek wrestles down his rage. He needs to stay human, especially with Stiles standing at the business end of a handgun. "I want them dead just as much as you."

Argent laughs at that. "Just as much as me. Right." He looks away, lowers his gun. "Maybe another day." Then he's stalking off, headed toward the sound of bullets.

Stiles lets his body sag in relief. "Holy crap, that was not—"

"Don't do that again." Derek grips Stiles's arm as he passes. "Let's keep moving."

"Don't do what again?" Stiles jogs along to keep pace. "Try and save your werewolf ass? You know, my delicateness can be an effective defense mechanism—"

"Or it can help you die faster." Derek releases his grip. "Don't do that again."

"Jeez, fine." Stiles shrugs the sleeve of his flannel shirt up. "Though it's nice to know you care."

"I—" But Derek cuts himself off. His automatic response would be _I don't care_ , but that's an asshole thing to say, because Stiles is here risking his life to save Derek from Julia and her twisted, feral pack, so plainly _Stiles_ cares in some capacity, and Derek finds that he's undeniably invested in Stiles's continuing survival, and it's not just because he needs Stiles to function properly right now. But he can't think about that. He keeps his mouth shut.

"I think it's more this way." Stiles points Derek a little to the left. "The Jeep's off the main road, the others should be back there already—"

Derek halts. _The others._ Something about that, something was important—

He remembers as the scent hits him, Julia's blood, and then under that, just as strong, the scent of his uncle.

Derek grabs Stiles in both hands and practically throws him away, because this is going to get violent and he doesn't want Stiles caught in the middle of it. There's Peter Hale, stepping out casually from behind a tree, smiling brightly, his teeth still painted red from his most recent kill. "Derek. So glad you made it out alive. What do you say we have a little chat about your future?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a few gross gory bits. Be warned.

"What did you do?" Derek's angry now, but it's not the rabid ferocity that feeds the wolfsbane hijacking his system—it's the human kind of anger, the kind he uses as an anchor. The kind he felt when he realized the Alpha pack took Boyd and Erica. Or when Victoria Argent went after Scott. Or when he found out Peter killed Laura. 

"I always thought Julia's particular gift was a little grotesque." Peter shrugs. "But you know how the fire changed me. When I saw that symbol on your door, well, I had to have it."

" _That's_ why you dragged Scott and Isaac and Stiles here? And the Argents? As a goddamn _distraction_ so you could kill Julia and take her gift?" Using people is a practice Derek hates in the extreme, and the fact that Peter's so fond of doing it infuriates him further.

"Well, yes. There's no way I could accomplish that on my own." Peter walks toward him. "And it's not just her gift. The pack is mine now." He grins, showing his fangs and not caring. " _You're_ mine."

Derek lets himself laugh, harsh and caustic. "I am _not_ part of your pack." He slides his claws out, wanting nothing more than to take Peter apart. 

"Oh, please, Derek, let's not do this. Look at you, you're already hurt." He gestures, and Derek knows that already, can feel the slices the other wolf took out of him a few minutes ago. Peter puts on an expression of concern. "You know you can't win." 

"Come on." Derek's nowhere near sure of himself by now, but it's fight or submit, and he's done submitting. "That's never stopped me before."

Peter tries to look remorseful, but Derek catches the irritation. Peter charges; he does likewise. 

They meet with an audible thump. 

Peter's palm smashes hard into Derek's left shoulder, but Derek avoids the scything claws, drives upward at Peter's ribs; Peter caves back, and the blow misses. Peter's slashing again, and Derek can't get away, so he raises a guarding forearm and takes it there instead of his neck. Peter roars in his face, and Derek feels the urge, the same as he felt from Julia, the urge to back off and surrender. But he's still clear enough, still human enough to resist it. He throws an elbow; Peter bends back, but not quite enough, and it catches the tip of his chin, snaps his head to the side. The pretense is gone now. Peter looks angry. Dangerous.

There's something wrong with his shoulder. Derek feels the weakness when he tries to use it. Peter's first blow did something to him. He tries not to let it show, but it's hard fending Peter off _and_ concealing his own vulnerability. Because Peter was right: he _is_ stronger than Derek. Not greatly so, but the difference is definite, and it's enough. Peter's foot connects with his knee; Peter grabs his wrist and twists it, yanks him in, digs claws into his side and drags them across his abdomen. 

Derek starts giving in. He doesn't mean to, but he starts anyway.

The wolf side of him doesn't care so much about the pain. He gains a little on Peter, throws him off his rhythm. His claws rip into Peter's body, clear from the flesh, rip in again. He roars, wondering why he was so cautious before, so cowardly.

Peter roars right back. 

Derek flinches, hard.

Peter roars again, advancing on him now, and Derek backs up, startled, abashed. Peter winds up and clocks him in the mouth.

By the time his head's stopped spinning, Peter has him pinned on his back, lying on the leaves, and he buries his claws in Derek's already-injured shoulder. Derek yells in pain, puts his hands on Peter's chest to push him off; but Peter roars again, and Derek jerks away, chastened. Peter's still working his shoulder, an oddly satisfied look on his face. Derek grits his teeth. It's an odd sensation, claws scrabbling against his bones, the slipping of cartilage, the feeling of fingers closing around his tendons and pulling them tight until they snap. Peter withdraws his fingers, stretches his mouth wide open, prepares to bite.

But a branch connects with Peter's temple with a sick-sounding _thunk_ , and an untied sneaker kicks him hard in the ribcage, sending him rolling across the forest floor. 

The next thing Derek sees is a wide-eyed face filling his vision. "Okay, Derek, listen: that man is your creepy evil uncle and he is trying to _brainwash_ you. But you don't belong to him. Okay? You—"

He breaks off as Peter grabs him by the back of the neck and tosses him aside. Peter's lip curls. "I like you, Stiles, but don't push it." 

Derek's confused, and makes no effort to stand. _Your creepy evil uncle._ The kid's right. _Stiles_. Stiles is right. He knows Peter, he doesn't want—

He roars in pain as Peter's fangs sink into the joint of his neck and his mutilated shoulder. 

The effect is pretty immediate, the instinct to tilt his head sideways and expose his neck as a show of submission. He feels teeth tearing a chunk of his flesh away.

"Derek!" 

A voice to his left. A voice—

"He killed your sister!" 

Stiles's voice.

With the weight of guilt behind it. It's a heavy weight. Laura's weight.

And it's enough to finally suppress his wolf side. 

"Stiles! Get out of here!" Because Stiles should have done that already, should be _long_ gone—this isn't his fight, and it's way too dangerous, he shouldn't be risking his life for—

Derek starts lashing out, frantic, gasping because his shoulder is butchered and useless, but Peter killed his sister and that hurts even more. He scores Peter's chest, but Peter knocks his hand away, drives a fist into the mangled shoulder. Derek yells in pain again as the bones finally give. But he won't stop fighting. He'll make Peter kill him before turning him into pack. 

Shots ring out. Derek immediately grabs Peter's arm so his uncle can't run away. He's exposed here, he knows that, but as long as Peter dies, it doesn't matter. As long as Peter can't hurt anyone else. He just hopes Stiles was smart enough to run away, or has taken cover, at least.

Peter jolts above him with each shot, his eyes widening in shock. Derek holds tight and doesn't let go until Peter goes limp; then he shoves him off.

He tries to stand up, but his left arm won't move to support his weight. His knee isn't really healed, either, so he doesn't think he'd be able to outrun the hunter who's undoubtedly coming toward him. He realizes suddenly he's probably going to die in a few seconds here. That seems important. He tries to think up something nice, something to take with him in his last moments. Nothing comes to mind. He turns his head. Peter's lying next to him, blood bubbling from his mouth. It reminds him of how he found Laura. Awful and more awful. Something moves in the background. 

Stiles.

Stiles is scrambling toward him. Stiles, who should be halfway back to Beacon Hills right now with Scott and Isaac. Who stayed to save him from Peter's mind-controlling bite, despite the fact that Peter is (was) stunningly dangerous and has kidnapped him before. And who is now presumably going to face a hunter and side with the werewolves. 

Which is stupid. Unutterably stupid. The hunters came here to kill Alphas. They're not going to leave Derek alive on the word of some kid who's not even out of high school.

Stiles lands on his knees next to Derek, skidding a little. He raises his hands, and they hover uncertainly as he glances up and down Derek's prone form. Then he looks up, his mouth opening like he's about to say something. He's preempted by the hunter.

"I think I'm owed an explanation."

Unbelievable.

Derek, with great effort, manages to lift his head. The pull on his damaged neck muscles is too painful, and he drops back immediately, clenching his jaw and squeezing his eyes shut; but yes. The hunter is Chris Argent. Chris Argent just saved his life. Derek can't help letting out a laugh. "Guess this makes us even." 

"Not until you tell me what the hell I just walked in on." 

There's a wet _thunk_ from next to him. Derek glances to the side. Argent has just sunk what looks like a machete into Peter's neck. He plants a boot on Peter's chest, yanks; the machete pulls clear. Peter jerks a little. Derek can see the severed end of a soft-looking tube poking through the ragged, gory mess of Peter's neck, directly under the corner of the jaw. The carotid artery. Blood pulses from it sluggishly, to the fading rhythm of Peter's heart, and wells in the crushed tissue surrounding it before dripping to the ground. It's a familiar sight; he saw the same thing when he put his claws through Peter's throat the last time and took his Alpha status.

Then Derek realizes, as the machete comes down again, that with Peter dying at the hands of a hunter, Julia's gift will go unpassed. Relief blooms through him like an ink drop in water.

He vaguely hears Stiles talking to Argent, recounting the truth of the situation. He can't see Argent's face from where he's lying, but the sharpness in his voice sounds dangerous anyway. "I don't appreciate being used."

"I know." But Stiles doesn't sound intimidated. "You weren't the only one who was used here."

The crunching of leaves, getting quieter. "Get him out of here." 

Stiles whips around, his eyes skittering over Derek's form again. "Oh my god. Oh my god. Um, dude, I think—I think your arm's falling off—"

"That means it's still attached, right?" Now that the adrenaline's fading, it hurts a lot. A _lot_. "Ow. Fuck. Fuck."

"Yeah, I _think_ it's still attached, but it's kinda—oh, god, it looks _so_ gross, I can't even tell—"

"Pretty sure it is. _Ow._ " He grits his teeth together hard, holding in the yell that's this close from tearing out of him. Tears of pain well in his eyes, but he really doesn't care. "Goddamnit. Get me to some painkillers." 

"Is your arm gonna—"

"It'll heal. _Fuck_ , it fucking _hurts_ —"

"Okay, yeah, I get it." Stiles has Derek's good arm around his shoulders, and he struggles to his feet, hauling Derek up with him. 

That's the side with bad knee, so Derek leans on Stiles pretty heavily as they march through the forest. "It helps to complain. God _damnit._ "

Stiles grins. "Whatever you say, Whinywolf." 

Derek flexes his good arm suddenly, pinning his forearm against Stiles's throat. Stiles starts smacking the arm and stumbles, which makes Derek lose his balance, and they both go down on the leaves. The jolt rouses new waves of pain from Derek's mangled shoulder, and he just holds his breath for a minute, trying not to scream or cry or do anything that might bring him embarrassment later. Stiles hovers. "Oh. Oh god. Are you—well, you know, not _okay_ , but are you, like _, worse_ , although I guess that doesn't even matter, does it, because it's not like I can _do_ —"

"Shut up, Stiles," he gasps.

"Got it. Shutting up." Stiles hauls Derek to his feet again.

They're at the car a minute later. Stiles presses a warning hand against Derek's chest when they get within sight of Scott and Isaac. "Good wolves. Friend wolves. Don't hurt the wolves."

Derek nods, but he's drained and doesn't trust himself. "Stiles. Stay with me."

"But I have to drive—"

"Scott. Drive."

Stiles shifts under Derek's weight. "Uh, I don't really like anyone else driving my—"

"Scott. You're driving."

Stiles rolls his eyes, digs in his pocket, and throws Scott the keys.


	7. Chapter 7

The detox isn't fun.

As with most substances, the symptoms are exactly the opposite of the drug effects. Derek has made sure everyone knows to stay away, but it's not, as he let them believe, because he fears they'll fall victim somehow to the animal part of him; it's because he doesn't want to expose to them the human part.

Suffering through it in the burned-out skeleton of his old house isn't helpful in the least. It just reminds him how stupid he was not to kill Peter on sight after the resurrection. His shoulder is healing, slowly, but the skin is sealed over by now, and just the structural damage remains. That'll be a longer process. 

The birds sing at him from the trees each day, straight through 'til dusk. When his wolf side manages to surface in the thick, muddled haze of the withdrawal, he can hear the stream behind the house babbling to itself, the constant, murmuring timbre.

Then his human side submerges him again. And he remembers.

He's alone.

Without a pack, yes, practically, because Boyd and Erica left, and he's sure Isaac was about to do the same, and Scott—he should have given up on Scott by now. He just hasn't gotten around to it. But that's only part of it. The terrible solitude. He dealt with it just fine for six years, but he let himself hope, and just like that, all his defenses vanished like mist in the morning. 

So it hurts now. He's pissed at himself for that, but it still hurts. Worse because of the detox.

He's sitting on the burned-out bed frame in Laura's room. (Right next to his room. They'd be back and forth all the time, poking their heads in, just to tell the other some dumb funny thing they'd read, or, in his case, to ask for help with schoolwork. It seemed so trivial then. He'd give anything, literally, anything, to have that back.) 

"Derek?"

He almost jumps out of his skin.

"Whoa, hey, sorry, I didn't—I mean, I called your name like twelve times—"

"Stiles." Derek goes to stand but can't muster the willpower. He feels like he should be angry at the intrusion—which goes against his express orders—but he _definitely_ can't muster the willpower for that. "What are you doing here?"

"We were getting worried about you." Stiles reaches to put a hand on the doorframe, sees it's a crumbling, charcoal mess, and desists. "It's, you know, it's been three days, and we haven't heard anything—"

" 'We'?" Derek slides forward on the frame, plants his feet on the floor. It's a start. "Who's 'we'?"

Stiles opens his mouth to speak, looks a little dumbfounded. "Well—all of us. Me, Scott, Isaac, and Boyd and Erica just showed up again yesterday, guess they got sick of camping out or something—"

"Oh." This comes as a complete surprise to him, the checking in. He would've thought they'd assume he could take care of himself. After all, he'd done his best to convince everyone of that starting the moment he recovered from the fire. (That's not accurate, he realizes; he'd done his best to convince _himself_ , and convincing everyone else came along with it.)

There's a silence, and Stiles talks to fill it. "Yeah. I got saddled with nurse duty because we all figured I was the one you were _least_ likely to kill if you were still in scary rabid wolfman mode. But, I mean, you look okay." Stiles folds his arms. "No crazy eyes or anything. So, that's good, right? Is it over?"

It takes Derek a moment to break the inertia of the heavy, restless solitude that's been plaguing him the past couple of days, so he leaves Stiles hanging for a few seconds; then he looks over, his voice pitching down to the familiar irritated growl. " _Nurse_ duty?"

"Whatever, figure of speech." Stiles raises his eyebrows. He's apparently become resistant to Derek's intimidation tactics. "Anyway, you were _not_ doing well last time I saw you, and no one's heard from you in three days, so you could be, like, dead or something. And I'm here to make sure you have not yet shuffled off this mortal coil."

Derek breaks the glare, rubs his face. What should he tell them? The words come before he's thought of something. "I think I'll be okay." He discovers as he says it that it's true. It hadn't been, up until this point, had just been some unrealistic state of being he felt he'd never see again; but now it seems simple. Easily within reach.

Stiles takes a few steps into the room. Laura's room. For some reason, Derek doesn't mind. Stiles leans in as if to inspect him. "Hey, your arm didn't fall off after all! Guess that means you don't need a prosthetic one…I was hoping you could get one with, like, a chainsaw extension, so you could—"

"No thanks. I'm pretty attached to this one." He halts and shuts his eyes in mild shame as he realizes the accidental pun he's just made; when he opens his eyes again, Stiles is grinning at him knowingly. Derek tries to growl. "Shut up."

"I didn't even say anything!" Stiles raises his hands in a gesture of innocence. "Jeez, always gotta pick on the skinny little human kid—"

That reminds him. "Stiles."

"Hm?"

"Thanks. For getting me out of there."

He shrugs. "Well, I mean, it's not like there was anyone else—"

"That was really dangerous." Derek rises, finally, gets his feet back under him. "And you don't even like me. So thanks." This feels good, for some reason. Normally, any attempt at thanking Stiles would be grudging at best. But this is the right thing to do. Not just for Stiles. It's mildly embarrassing, actually, that he's so okay with this. He blames the withdrawal.

"Yeah, well, you are a massive killjoy, and you are _way_ too self-important, but, I mean, what you did for Erica and Boyd—" Stiles sighs. "Yes, you're not a total asshole. Okay, I'll admit it. Just wish you'd crack a smile occasionally. And stop being so grumpy all the time. Jeez."

"I'm the Alpha. I'm not allowed to smile." He brushes past Stiles and heads for the stairs.

Stiles is right behind him. "Did you—did you just make a _joke_? Oh my God. Scott's not gonna believe me."

"If you tell him, I'll kill you." Derek takes the stairs slowly to avoid jarring his injured shoulder. He has half a mind to go visit Erica and Boyd. See how they're doing.

"Wait, you're—" Stiles follows him out the door. "You're still joking, right?"

"Wanna find out?" He grabbed his keys on the way out and he goes for his car, which is sitting in front of Stiles's familiar turquoise Jeep. But the footsteps have stopped behind him, and he turns.

Stiles is hanging back uncertainly, standing on the edge of the porch. Derek waits for an explanation, receives none, prompts him. "What?"

"Damnit," he mutters. "Um, it's just, when Peter was taking you apart, and I was trying to knock you back to your senses, and I said—"

" 'He killed your sister.' " Derek nods. "I remember."

"Yeah. Sorry." He tips his head down, scratches the back of it. "Feels like—it wasn't my place. To bring that up."

"Don't worry about it, Stiles. I needed to hear it." He leans against the side of the Charger.

"Okay." He takes a deep breath. "Sorry, I just—felt weird about that—"

"Stiles. It's fine." Derek folds his arms.  "Although you shoulda been gone by then. As soon as Peter showed up."

"You kidding? I wasn't gonna ditch you. That would be a serious dick move." He trundles down the porch steps.

"It was _dangerous_. You were in way over your head. We both were. You should've left." He turns as Stiles passes, jabs a finger at him.

"Yeah, well, I couldn't leave your poor, confused werewolf ass all alone in the woods with your creepy zombie uncle who undoubtedly had some evil maniacal plan laid out for you. Because you sure as hell weren't getting out of there on your own." He hops into his Jeep.

Derek plants his hands on the hood of the Charger, his keys, hooked around one finger, splaying on the black metal. Stiles starts the Jeep, but he apparently notices something's up, because he turns the engine off, climbs out. "What?"

Derek's having trouble parsing this. "Thanks."

"You already said that, dude."

"You risked your life for me." Derek catches his eye. He needs Stiles to understand. _He_ needs to understand. "And you barely know me."

Stiles shrugs. "I know you well enough to know you were worth saving."

Derek can't meet Stiles's gaze anymore. His eyes flick down to the hood of the car.

"I mean, yeah, you're still occasionally an asshole, but you're actually a good guy, from what I can tell, and, you know, I thought it was pretty important that you made it outta there alive." Stiles is rattling this off with utter nonchalance. Derek is used to making other people cower before him. But he's the one quailing now. Because that's what it is. He can't remember the last time he felt important. But he _is,_ somehow, to Stiles, at least. Despite the constant fuckups, despite the failures, Stiles thinks he's a good person. That he's worth something. Worth saving.

"I guess I never thought of that." Derek pushes himself off the roof of the car and slips inside before Stiles can respond. He doesn't think he could take any more.

Watching the blackened face of the Hale home shrink in his rearview mirror, he finds some new resolution welling up in the bottom of his chest. The drive to be a good Alpha is no longer fueled by attrition. Because he's a good man. (If he can't take his own word for it, he'll take someone else's, the word of a kid who's pretty remarkable himself.) He's got something of value to give here. Something to build. It's time for him to start trusting himself. To do things right this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter. Thanks for reading. (p.s. if you get the chainsaw reference, you're my best friend.)


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